


One Pants, Two Pants, Red Pants, No Pants

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Red Pants, Fantasies of Red pants, M/M, Obsession with Red Pants, Red Pants, Sex, Thirty-Two Pairs to be Exact, With Hands Mouths & Penises.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6939676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After glimpsing John in a pair of red pants Sherlock needs to rethink everything he thought he knew about his flatmate.  This naturally results in Sherlock replacing all of Johns pants with a variety of red pants, which then, of course, results in Sherlock personally removing those red pants from Johns body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Pants, Two Pants, Red Pants, No Pants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to DaringD, who left a comment in a previous piece of work stating that it would be awesome if Sherlock replaced all of John’s undies with red ones.  
> Unfortunately, I was unable to write it into that fic, so here is one, especially for DaringD. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

The first time Sherlock saw them was not long after John had finally broken up with that woman, the one from the clinic, with the lilo, (if broken up was the correct term to use for two people who hadn’t progressed passed heavy snogging on the couch).

He had been digging through the washing basket in the bathroom, looking for his crochet hook, items of poor quality cotton in dull tones of grey and brown and in awful checkered patterns flying haphazardly over his shoulder, landing willy-nilly in the bathroom, (someone would come along later and put it back in the basket), when suddenly something brightly coloured went flying out of his peripheral vision.  Sherlock straightened up and turned, his eyes instantly falling on the bright red article of clothing, now hanging precariously over the shower curtain rod.  From where he was standing, which was less than three feet away from the anomaly in the room, it looked like a pair of pants, but that was absurd as they were not his (the idea that he would think about wearing something so cheap, up against his most sensitive areas was laughable) and John hadn’t had anyone over since whats-her-name from the Chinese smuggling case, so that could only mean that they were Johns, which was as ridiculously absurds as the idea of them being Sherlocks.  One only had to look at all of the other items of clothing spread around the small room to know that John did not do bright colours, so therefore, what they looked like, and what they were, were two different things completely.  

Taking one large stride towards the bath tub, Sherlock reached up and tugged the red material down so he could closer inspect the piece, and sure enough, it was a pair of mens pants.  Using both hands he held them up in front of his face, spread out so he could have a look at them.  They were red cotton, with a thick white band across the top and white cotton stitching accenting all of the seams.  They looked to be about Johns size and a quick inhale revealed Johns scent, but that could also be because they were buried under three days worth of Johns worn clothing.  They weren’t old but had definitely been worn a few times. But despite all of the evidence pointing to the fact that these were indeed John’s pants, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to believe that John, who thought it perfectly acceptable to wear grey and black waistcoats (although, to be honest no colour combination is forgivable when it comes to waistcoats), and brown corduroy would actually own a pair of bright red pants and wear them. 

Dropping the pants (the crochet hook completely forgotten) Sherlock headed to John’s room, deeming further investigation a necessary reason to trespass into the other mans room in his absence.  Upon opening the top drawer on Johns dressing table he saw an array of sensible looking pants, vests and socks.  Blacks, greys, browns and navy blues with a couple of whites thrown in for good measure.  Nothing indicating that the doctor enjoyed a splash of interesting every now and then.   The conclusion was made.  The pants weren’t Johns, so the next question was, who’s were they?

Three laps around the living room led to a ten minute delve into his mind palace and Sherlock came up with the only viable conclusion.  In the past few days John had somehow managed to smuggle a person into the flat and participated in activities where said person removed their underwear and all without Sherlock knowing anything about it, but not just anyone.  A man.  

Didn’t that just make life a little bit more interesting!

~o~

The second time he saw them, exactly one week later, threw everything he knew about John into complete disarray and made him lie down on the couch and seriously consider his deductive skills for an entire afternoon.

John had been running late for work because his alarm hadn’t gone off.  (Sherlock though it a very good idea not to let him know that it hadn’t gone off because he, Sherlock, in a fit of boredom, had dismantled the clock while he was at work the previous day and when he had put it back together it hadn’t quite worked as well.)  He had gone into the bathroom with an armful of clothes, had a four minute shower and then proceeded to get dressed, where after a minute and three quarters he cursed loudly and came out of the bathroom in nothing except a plain blue buttoned up shirt, (one of his better ones) and a pair of red pants.  _Those_ red pants to be exact.  It was the same shade of red, the same cheap cotton, the same stitching.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ” John had been chanting at the time as he had hurried from the bathroom and back up to his room to retrieve his apparently forgotten trousers.  Sherlock had been surprised he was able to observe that much as what was really screaming out at him was “JOHNS ARSE LOOKS MIGHTY FINE IN THOSE PANTS, WOULDN’T YOU AGREE?” And yes, he did agree.  He agreed thoroughly.  The material and the fit hugged the curve of his cheeks like a second skin.  The deep red complimented the still golden tone of Johns skin beautifully, the white stitching highlighting the colour contrast even more.    The elastic around the thighs was perfectly stretched, not so tight as to dig in, but not so loose as to leave the openings baggy.  It was as John came back down, fully dressed and shoving something into a shoulder bag that Sherlock realised that his deductions, just last week, had been completely incorrect as had his assessment of John these past months.  

Sherlock, in a state of slight confusion, shuffled over to the couch and laid down on it, not noticing the rest of John’s harried panic, nor his departure, and assumed his standard thinking pose, where he stayed for the rest of the afternoon, until well after John returned from work, thinking over what he thought he knew about John and what he now knew about John.  

When he rejoined the world, not inside of his head, it was to see John doing something at the kitchen counter.  If the smell coming from the kitchen was anything to go by, he was preparing the pumpkin and goat cheese risotto he seemed to be rather fond of and Sherlocks eyes dropped straight down to Johns backside.  They were now clad in the baggy, light grey fleece of his sweat pants, (which meant he had been home long enough to change out of his brown work trousers), but underneath that shabby grey material Sherlock knew was something much more enticing.  It was red and tight and utterly delicious and Sherlock decided, right then, that the only pants that John should ever wear from then on in was red, well-fitted pants.  Now the tricky part was to find a way to make this happen without John refusing to let it happen with some ridiculous excuse of _invading Johns personal space_ or J _ohns pants being Johns property_ or some other trite argument.

~o~ 

Five days later and Sherlocks plan was ready to begin.  The day after his revelation, that John was to wear nothing but red pants for the rest of Sherlocks life, he had spent trawling the internet, researching, perusing and purchasing multiple pairs of red pants in the finest materials and of the top most quality craftsmanship.  He had ordered thirty-one pairs in total (a pair for each day of the month), from twelve different websites and yesterday the final package had arrived.  He now had multiple pairs of the finest red mens undergarments stashed neatly under his bed and today, while John was at work, he would begin subtly replacing all of Johns current pants, (fourteen pair in total), one-by one, or one by two to be exact.

Pulling two pairs from under his bed, both plain red, one brief, one boxer brief, he made his way up to Johns bedroom and pulled out the most rattiest looking pair, (a grey pair, clearly from before his deployment days) and placed the two pairs in the drawer, underneath the others so as not to attract Johns attention too early on in the operation.

This carried on for two weeks, every two to three days Sherlock would replace one pair of boring pants for two pair of red pants.  So far he had taken seven pairs and put in fourteen.  Surely John must have noticed by now, but so far had not said a thing.  This just made Sherlock even more curious.  He was certain, that by now John would have gotten himself into a tiff over Sherlock taking his things and demanding to know where all of his other pants had gone.  (The answer to that one was in the married ones garbage bin.)  But so far, he had not been forthcoming about the blatant intrusion on his personal, private, life.  Even more surprisingly was that John had been wearing the pants.  Sherlock had seen evidence of this in the washing basket in the bathroom.  Not every pair, but every other day a new set of red pants found their way in with the rest of John’s dirty laundry.

“Curiouser and curiouser” he mumbled to himself as John left for yet another day of work, and got back to testing the reaction of Helix Aspersa Müller Glycoconjugates with various different Amaranthaceae leafs. 

~o~

John had quickly become used to the quirks of his unusual, mad yet intriguing flatmate and while he didn’t understand most of what the other man did, and quite frequently verbally opposed to some of his actions, he was usually content to let him carry on so long as no one was hurt and Johns belongings were left unscathed.  So when two weeks ago, he had gone to his top draw to get a clean pair of pants he was somewhat surprised to see a flash of red hiding away on the bottom of the drawer.  Further inspection revealed the red to be not one, but two pairs of red pants that were most definitely not there the morning before.  His first impulse was to pluck the pants out of his drawer and inhale the scent to see if he could smell Sherlock on them, (because he knew it was Sherlock behind it all), and then he realised that that was probably a bit creepy, especially since it was clear that Sherlock didn’t do that sort of thing and that this was clearly some experiment.

Pushing that aside, the impulse that followed was to go down stairs and berate Sherlock once again, for going into his room, but then decided that since nothing else appeared to be touched, he would leave it as the argument that would follow would leave him with the beginnings of a headache, again, and to be honest, two pairs of pants were really not worth the hassle.  Especially ones that felt as nice as the two new additions to his drawer.

 Pulling out a dark blue pair he shut the drawer and thought no more of it until two days later when another two pair of red pants found their way into his drawer.  Upon seeing them he decided that he was most definitely going to talk to his flatmate about the issue and pulling a pair out he made his way downstairs, only to find that Sherlock was not actually home, so instead John went into the bathroom and showered.  Upon drying himself he eyed the red pants, which had made the journey into the bathroom with his other clothes, and decided that they did actually look quite comfortable, so he put them on, almost groaning in pleasure at how soft and comfortable they were.  It wasn’t until he was half way to work that he realised Sherlock may actually have coated them in some substance that would see John break out in a rash or pass out due to toxins being released in his system, (it wouldn’t be the first time), but decided that it was too late for worrying now.  He would just have to yell at Sherlock after his nuts had swollen to the size of grapefruits.  

As it was, John didn’t need to yell at anyone.  He had forgotten about what Sherlock may or may not have possibly done to the pants after his first patient and by the time he got home had forgotten that he was wearing the pants altogether.  It wasn’t until he went to bed that night that he realised that not only were his testicles still the right shape, size and colour, but he probably should have thanked Sherlock for the pants, which were sinfully comfortable, and then questioned him on what the end game actually was, and decided it could wait until morning.  But as the way life goes, John never got a chance because at two forty-five he was woken up by Sherlock telling him that there was a body, with a fish tail, washed up by the Thames.  

Two days later and one sci-fi convention murder solved John decided that he wasn’t going to say anything about the pants.  He would wait patiently until the aim of Sherlocks new experiment, (because this was an experiment - not some weird courting ritual, set out to seduce John - although, to be honest, if it were, it was working as these red pants had made many cameo appearances in his dreams lately, accompanied by dark curls and a deep voice), became clearly obvious, or until Sherlock cracked and told him, in a sulky fit over not having his grand scheme acknowledged, what in the hell the mad bastard was up to this time.

It was another two days later that John realised that as more and more red pants filled his draw, his original supply was actually dwindling.  Again, he was determined to lecture Sherlock once again on using Johns things for experiments and was going to demand where _his_ pants were but then he pulled another pair of red pants, these ones with black stitching and oh so silky smooth, and decided that it could wait, just long enough to see where this was going.  After all, they were only pants.

~o~

A month.  It had been a month since Sherlock had started replacing all of Johns boring pants with much more pleasing to look at red pants and so far John had not said a thing.  Not about the red pairs, which he now owned twenty-eight pairs of, which were miraculously appearing in his draw every other day, nor about his old boring pairs, which had all, (apart from Johns original red pair), mysteriously disappeared as of yesterday afternoon.  And to make matters worse, Sherlock had not been able to see John in a single pair of these red pants, since that very first time.  Not once had his hard, _expensive_ , work paid off to his benefit.  It was hateful, knowing that now, every single day, John’s nether region was encased in firm luxurious red material and Sherlock never got to see it.  Not even a glimpse, and it wasn’t through lack of trying.  He had walked in on John after he had showered, while he was getting dressed in his room, in the mens room at the Yard and at a small cafe they had visited just three days ago.  He had watched John reaching and stretching, orchestrating scenarios where John would have to do those things, to see just a sliver of red above the waist band of Johns trousers.  He had hidden John’s belts and readjusted the elastic in his sweat pants and pyjama pants, but so far, nothing.  The only time he saw flashes of red was when he put another pair in the draw or when he saw the clothes in the washing basket.  That was it.  

What was the point of knowing John had red pants on, if he never got to see John in those red pants?  It was pure torture knowing and not being able to see.  It was just not fair.  Sherlock needed to remedy this situation, and soon!

~o~

Two days later and the problem solved it self.  It was not the remedy that Sherlock had in mind, but it was most certainly one that he approved of.

He currently had John pinned up against the hallway wall as the shorter man cursed in frustration as he tried to undo the buttons on Sherlocks shirt.  Sherlock would have helped him but he was too busy groping Johns arse and sucking a bruise onto his neck.  It was going to compliment the bruise he had sucked on the other side of his neck in the living room, not two minutes ago, quite nicely.

“Fucking…about time” John gasped as the final button slipped out of its hole and John hastily pushed the shirt off of Sherlocks shoulders, his mouth instantly honing in on the curve of Sherlocks collar bone.  “Why…are we..” John managed to push out between bites and sucks, “…not on…a…bed?” The last word was punctuated with a particularly sharp nip of his teeth that may have cause dSherlock to yelp out an embarrassing noise.  

“We should fix that right now” Sherlock answered, forgetting the sound his mouth had just made and he pulled John away from the wall and walked him hurriedly backwards towards the bedroom, holding onto the lapels of his shirt so he didn’t trip over.  Why John still had his shirt on was beyond Sherlock, but that was yet another problem he planned to rid himself of once they crossed the threshold of the bedroom.

“Your state of dress is completely unacceptable” Sherlock stated as he pushed the bedroom door open and his fingers moved swiftly down Johns shirt, popping buttons open at a rather impressive speed since his insides felt like they were vibrating so fast that he half expected his voice to come out in a pitch, sounding in the E range, every time he opened his mouth.

“You’re not much better” John panted as his hands moved to unbuckle Sherlocks belt, moving with much more ease then he had with the buttons and then started cursing again when he realised that Sherlocks trousers not only had a button, but also two inside clasps.  “God damn fucking posh fucking tailored…” He shut up as Sherlock yanked the vest John had been wearing under the shirt up over his head.  If he was going to say anything else, he didn’t get a chance for as soon as his top half was completely bare, Sherlock surged forward, pressing their torsos and their mouths together.  The kiss was hard and filthy and while it was happening John finally managed to get Sherlocks trousers open and pushed them down to fall around his ankles.  Sherlock had also managed to open Johns jeans and it was at that moment, as Johns jeans dropped to the floor, that he realised that he was now going to see John, once more, dressed in his red pants, but this time it would be better as it would be all that he was dressed in.  Slowly pulling away, Sherlock closed his eyes and, taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked down to see…

Black.

“What…” Sherlock spat out, apparently confused and clearly not at all happy. “…Are those?”

John looked down to where Sherlock was looking, clearly just as confused, if not more so, than the detective.  Sherlocks hand shot out and he tucked his finger into the waist band of Johns pants and pulled the elastic, letting it slap back into place against Johns skin.

“My pants?” John answered, not sure what the answer should be, seeing as it was quite obvious that they were, in fact, John’s pants.

“No” Sherlock explained slowly.  “No, all of your pants are red, John.  These are clearly not.”

John was baffled, just momentarily and then his brain went from ‘ _Sex. Tongues. Penis. Touch it. Oh, god. So good_ ’ to real life and the past four weeks flooded back.  His pants going, red pants arriving, Sherlocks experiment.  Apparently now was the time that John was going to find out what it was all actually about.

“No, they are.  They are one of the only pairs I actually have left, thank you very much.”

“What do you mean, _one of the only pairs_?  You should only have one left, and they most certainly shouldn’t be _black_.”  Sherlock spat the colour out like he did the word, _sentiment._   Like it was a fowl tasting thing that needed to be removed from his mouth immediately.

“Yeah, I’ve still got the red ones, but also these ones.  You took the rest and replaced them all with other red ones.  Why did you do that by the way?”

Sherlock didn’t answer Johns question.  Just continued on with his own line of enquiry.  “You had fourteen pairs of pants, John.  I counted them myself.  Thirteen pairs of horribly dull ones and one pair of red ones.  I have most definitely thrown out thirteen pairs of pants.”

“Nope, I had fifteen pair and what do you mean, you threw them out?”

Again, John’s question was ignored.  “I specifically counted, on three seperate occasions, fourteen pairs of pants John, so unless you have bought another pair in the last four weeks, then you only had fourteen pairs of pants.

“No, I had fifteen pairs and no I haven’t bought any, and when exactly did you count my pants?”  

“While you were at work.”

“Right.  And it didn’t occur to you to add the pair that I was wearing at the time, did it?”

There was silence as the two of them stared at Johns black pants, Sherlock mentally kicking himself at such an idiotic mistake and John silently basking in the fact that Sherlock overlooked such an obvious point in his little experiment, not once, but three seperate times.

After a while John was starting to feel a bit self conscious at the fact that he was standing with his trousers around his ankles while everyone in the room was staring at his now only half hard cock.  “So, umm are we going to…or is this…”

“I refuse to go any further while you are wearing those” Sherlock stated pointing at the apparently offending article of clothing.

John let out a half frustrated half bemused huff of a sigh.  “Fine” he said, slipping his thumbs into the waistband.  “I’ll take them off then, shall I.”  He was just about to lower the pants when suddenly there were hands holding his in place and Sherlock bellowing out a “NO!”

John looked up at Sherlock, trying not to be confused, but he was pretty sure he was failing.  “But you said…”

“Go change, now” Sherlock ordered.  

“Change?” John asked.  Why John had thought having sex with Sherlock would be normal was beyond him, but he really shouldn’t be surprised that it had started to get a bit weird, and nobody had glimpsed anyones penis yet, let alone touched anything of importance.

“Red pants.  Now, John.  Any pair,  You have thirty-two pairs to choose from.”  With that, Sherlock moved to the bad, somehow managing to move gracefully, despite he trousers around his ankles and sat down, arms crossed across his chest as he waited for John to move.  After a few seconds of Sherlock glaring at him, John realised that the other man was serious and with a reluctant sigh, he toed off his shoes, stepped out of his jeans and walked out of Sherlocks bedroom.  

While he listened to John moving around upstairs, Sherlock quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing while he cursed himself quietly.  How could he have made a mistake like that?  Fifteen pairs, not fourteen.  And what were the chances that out of thirty-three pairs of pants, John had chosen today, of all days, to wear the ones that were most definitely not red.  When Sherlock had looked down, thrumming with a months worth of excitement and anticipation at seeing Johns body encased in red, only to see black instead, he had had a brief second of panicked hysteria.  His first thought was that he had suddenly developed some brain tumour that had caused him to go colour blind. Then after about two-thirds of a second the realisation that John was _not_ wearing red pants hit him and he went from excitedly lust ridden, to terrified, to horribly disappointed. That was not how was supposed to have gone.  John was supposed to have been gloriously encased in red silk, the material wrapping around his skin, deliciously showing off every line and curve and highlighting what was bound to be an impressive bulge, perfectly.  But looking down, all he had seen was black.  The material was too loose, it was to dark to make out the different dips and curves and most of all; It. Was. Not. Red.  That had been the fantasy since that day John had ran from the bathroom wearing his red pants.  Not blue or grey or white, and definitely not black.  They had to be red.  Sherlock had not tormented himself this long to be gypped out of having John, right here, in this bedroom, where so many fantasies had played out in his head, in RED PANTS.

Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of John, coming back downstairs and he quickly arranged himself so he was casually reclining against the head of the bed.  The thought of John coming back to him in nothing but his red pants was quickly giving life back to his penis, which had begun to die a miserable death at the sight of Johns black pants.  Now, it was twitching and pulsing and almost completely hard.  The second John stepped into the bedroom, his penis filled itself to full capacity in a matter of seconds as Sherlock looked and stared at the sight before him.  

There was John, in nothing but his red pants.  The red pants.  The ones that started this ridiculous charade.  This obsession with red pants.  He was wearing the original cotton pair, with the thick white band and the white cotton stitching and now that John wasn’t wearing a shirt over the top and wasn’t hurrying away Sherlock could see the way that they sat perfectly around his waist, which was only just starting to show the signs of too many nights on the couch with take out.  It showed the way his hips curved perfectly into thighs that obviously did a lot of running around.  It showcased what was proving to be a rather remarkable erection.  Without a word from either of them Sherlock shot up off of the bed and stalked over to John, stopping just far enough away that he could look down at the red material stretched beautifully over tanned skin.  Slowly he circled the smaller man and felt his mouth pool with saliva when he saw how well the pants hugged Johns arse.  It was beautiful.  A work of art.  It was perfection.  Sherlock stepped up behind John and placed his hands on the cheeks of Johns bum, the globes fitting perfectly into each palm, and he gave a firm squeeze, causing John to moan quietly.  

“Exquisite” Sherlock murmured into Johns ear.  John pushed back into Sherlocks grasp.  “Impeccable” he said, giving another squeeze, this one a bit gentler.  “Täydellinen; Téleios; Parfait; Perfekt; Ideal’no; Pāfekuto” he pulled Johns earlobe between his lips and sucked.  “Perfect” he whispered.

Sherlock was close enough now that John could roll his head back onto Sherlocks shoulder and Sherlock took that as an opportunity to suck yet another mark onto Johns skin, this one where his shoulder and neck joined as his hands moved from Johns backside and slid around his waist, settling on his stomach, the tips of his fingers dipping under the strip of white elastic around the top of Johns pants.

“Do you know how much I have fantasised about you, John, right here, just like this” and his hands moved further into Johns pants, just a centimetre.  

“I’m going to go with quite a bit” John answered, his voice lower and huskier than normal and Sherlock felt his hips twitch upwards.

“Every night, for just over a month now” Sherlock clarified.  “When I saw you in these” and Sherlock gave a tug on the material.  “I haven’t been able to get the image out of my head.”

“So you replaced all of my pants with more red ones.  How did that work out for you?” Sherlock bit down on Johns shoulder and John let out a yelp.  That would teach him for getting cocky.

“It was torture.  I tried to see you again in your red pants, but I never succeeded.” Sherlock pushed his hands further into Johns pants and slid his palms so they were sitting on Johns hips.  John let out a barely audible whimper.  

“You could have just asked, you know” John said as he pushed his hips back, feeling Sherlocks own erection rub against the top of the cleft of his arse, since he was certainly not going to get anything if he thrusted forward.

“Honestly, John.  If I had propositioned you all those weeks ago, what do suppose your action really would have been?”  Sherlocks voice was light, teasing as he pulled John back harder by his hips, encouraging the grinding that the other man was doing against Sherlocks pelvis.

“Yes” John gasped.  “My answer would have been yes.”

At this unexpected bit of information Sherlock pulled his hands out of Johns pants and spun the man around to face him. “Just like that.  You would have said yes?”

“Yes” John said again.  Sherlock studied Johns face, looking for any signs of lying, but despite the rather alluring flush that had taken over Johns face and the blown pupils, Sherlock could only see the truth written on Johns face.  “Every time, it would have been yes” John whispered.  “For every fantasy, I would have said yes, you great, bloody fool.  How did you not notice that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.  Instead he pushed John back, their mouths joined once again, until the back of Johns knees hit the mattress and he dropped, unexpectedly, into a sit.  Sherlock followed him down, dropping to his knees between Johns parted legs and instantly his mouth started lipping and sucking John through the material of his red pants.

Sherlock almost missed Johns moan of pleasure over the sound of his own, as his tongue worked up and over the material, feeling the roughness of the cotton on his tongue.  He sucked at the head, his tongue swirling and tasting the pre-come that had soaked through the material.  John leaned back on his elbows and watched as Sherlock licked and sucked him through the pants, the material soon becoming much darker with Sherlocks saliva.  

“Your mouth feels so good” John praised as a hand worked up into Sherlocks curls and he threaded his fingers through the strands of hair.  “Oh, god, keep on doing that.” Sherlock apparently had plans of his own, though, and did the complete opposite of that.  Instead he pulled off of Johns clothed cock and his long fingers moved back up to the waist band of Johns pants.  “Lift” he ordered and John obeyed, lifting his hips up so Sherlock could slowly pull the red cotton up over his straining erection and seductively down his legs, unhooking them from around Johns ankles and letting them drop to the floor.

“After all that, you took them off” John smiled, looking into Sherlocks almost completely black eyes.

“If I were to keep them on, I wouldn’t be able to do this, now, would I?” And Sherlock leaned back down and sucked the head of Johns cock into his mouth.

“Christ, Sherlock” John cried out and he let his head fall back to the mattress behind him as he replaced his hand back in Sherlocks hair.  “Fuck” he moaned as Sherlocks tongue worked all of the sensitive nerve endings currently enclosed in his mouth.  He tongued along the slit at the top, trailing the tip of his tongue down the frenulum and then circling the corona.  He sucked and nibbled and kissed the head and let his tongue slip under the foreskin before moving his lips further down.  By now, John was a panting, writhing mess.  It had been so long since anyone had done this for him and he was pretty sure that anyone previous had never been this good.  His fingers tightened their grip in Sherlocks hair and his thighs shook from the restraint of keeping his hips from thrusting up, because if he were to start that, he would end up fucking Sherlocks face.

The thought of that act, mixed with the wonderful suction that was being applied to three quarters of his engorged penis and the fondling of his testicles was enough to practically send John over the edge, which at the moment was the last thing he wanted.

“God, no, Sherlock, stop.  Stop” he panted, removing his hand from Sherlock s hair and tugging on his shoulder instead.

“What? What’s wrong.  You were clearly enjoy…”

“No, it was good.  Fuck, it was so good.  It took every ounce of will power I had to stop but…”

“That’s not how you want to come” Sherlock observed.

“No.  I mean, maybe another time, but this time I was hoping, you know.”

A smirk spread across Sherlocks mouth.  “John, you truely are a ridiculous romantic, you know that” and he surged forward, ushering John onto the bed properly as he crawled over him, his tongue licking into Johns mouth.  John shuffled back until the top of his head hit the headboard and then he settled back on the mattress, hooking a leg around the back of Sherlocks thigh and a hand around the back of his neck and he pulled him down, so their bodies were flush against each other.  Both men groaned and Sherlock pulled his mouth away form Johns, resting his forehead against the other mans.  

“Fuck, you feel good” Sherlock husked as he thrust his hips forward, his cock brushing up alongside Johns.  John responded with a thrust of his own, followed by a deep moan that sent sparks down Sherlocks spine.  They rutted against each other for another minute or so before Sherlock decided that he needed more.  Ignoring Johns whine as he rolled off of the shorter man, Sherlock leant over and opened the bedside draw, rummaging around until his fingers clasped around a familiar plastic bottle.  Pulling the lubricant from the draw he slicked up the palm of his right hand and manoeuvred himself over John again, lining their erections up and wrapping his hand around the both of them.  John arched up into the touch with hiss of pleasure and then his hand was over Sherlocks and between the two of them a rather satisfying pace was set, hands sliding up and down, fingers squeezing and releasing at just the right moments.  Hips thrust together, pushing the heads of their cocks through the ring made by their hands, pre-come joining the slick already there, making the glide of their hands easier. Their  moans and grunts sounding out over the wet sound of their hands moving over their joined erections.

As the pace picked up, so did their breathing and soon Sherlock had his face buried in Johns neck, only enough space between their bodies to allow their hands to move back and forth and it wasn’t long before John was trying to gasp out a warning.  

“Sher…fuck…I’m gonna…god, fuck….” and then his hips slammed forward, his back arching, his head thrown back and he was still for two seconds, as the first string of come pulsed out over Sherlocks hand and onto Johns stomach.  With a keening noise, John relaxed, only to buck his hips up again as another stream of come followed the first and then another and another.  John became boneless and flopped back onto the bed, his hand slackening over Sherlocks and he winced as Sherlock slid his hand back up along their penises.  

“That was amazing” John groaned, pushing up and latching his mouth onto Sherlocks as Sherlock loosened the grip he had around them and Johns cock, now considerably softer, slipped out of his grasp completely.

Sherlock kissed John back and tightened his grip around his still, very hard cock and started to stroke again.

“Uh, uh.  I don’t think so” John said and Sherlock soon found himself flipped onto his back.  “Don’t move a muscle” John instructed and then quickly rolled off of Sherlock to pick something up off of the floor.  When he rolled back he had a mischievous glint in his eyes and a pair of red pants in his hands.  His red pants.  Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what John was doing when the man wrapped the red cotton around Sherlocks cock and started stroking.

Sherlocks head dropped back onto the pillow behind him as a deep, loud groan was ripped from his throat.  “OH, GOD” he shouted as his hips started to stutter in time with John’s strokes.  “God, yes…that’s… oh ffffffuck, John!” Sherlocks eyes were scrunched shut as he tried to stave off the orgasm that was trying to very hard to push through the floodgates, but Sherlock was determined to make this last.  John, wanking him off with his red pants.  As much as Sherlock had been tempted to do this himself, to steal a pair (this pair in particular) and use it as a masturbatory aid, he had never dreamed that John would do it for him.  He could feel Johns grip, each individual finger, through the layers of material, as he, himself, gripped the sheets at his side.  His hips thrust up as his head rolled from side to side.  The moans that left his mouth were almost ones of pain as every nerve ending in his body felt like it was stretching and pulling apart.  Biting his lip, trying to hold in the guttural moans, Sherlock managed to keep those nerve endings from exploding.  At least that was until John leaned over and whispered.  “God, you’re fucking gorgeous.  Let me see you come, Sherlock.”

At that Sherlocks eyes shot open and he released his bottom lip from between his teeth as those nerve endings, all over his body, exploded within him, washing him in a feeling of absolute, pure ecstasy and he practically screamed Johns name as his cock pulsed ribbons of come into the red fabric that was still stroking over his cock.

“God, fucking look at you” he heard John say over the roaring in his ears as his hips continued to thrust up, until finally he was spent and they stuttered to a stop.  With a shuddering sigh, Sherlock melted into the mattress and he let his eyes drift shut.  He was vaguely aware of the cotton being unwrapped from his now soft penis and then there was John curling up against his side, resting his head against Sherlocks shoulder.  

“We should go shower” he told Sherlock, although his voice sounded as if that was the last thing he wanted to do.  “We’re both quite disgusting.”

Unable to open his eyes, Sherlock grunted out a non-caring noise and lazily shrugged his shoulders, not really caring if they were covered in sweat, saliva and ejaculate.  They could be covered in sewer water for all he cared, he was too blissed out to do anything that involved more than one muscle group at a time and even that was an effort.  John seemed to catch on that Sherlock was not going anywhere as he sat up, grabbed the blanket from where it had been kicked to the bottom of the bed yesterday afternoon and laid back down, pulling the blanket over the both of them.  As John settled his head on Sherlocks shoulder, Sherlock found the energy to bring his arm up around Johns waist and pull him closer. 

“So, red pants?” John voiced after a few moments of silence.  

“Hmm” Sherlock agreed lethargically.  “Apparently.”

“And I now have thirty-two pairs of them.”

Sherlock cracked open one of his eyes and looked down at John, who had a rather self-satisfied smile on his face.  Sherlock felt the corners of his own mouth twitch up.

“So you do” he answered.  “It would be a shame for them all to go to waste” he said.

He watched as John tried to get his face to look more serious, only to fail.  “That it would” he agreed after coming to the conclusion that the smile was just not going to leave his face.  “Any preferences for the next time round?”

Unfortunately, yes he did, but too many of them.  They would just have to continue to work their way through every possible scenario with every pair of pants, at least twice to make sure they got it right the first time.  “Too many” he replied, not sure if he could pick one over the other.  He supposed it was like a parent picking a favourite child.  Sentiment was an awful thing.  It made indecisive fools of everyone.

“Well, I guess I will just have to surprise you again next time” John replied, quickly followed by a yawn.

“I look forward to it” was Sherlocks answer and the room fell into silence, interrupted by the soft sounds of late night Baker Street filtering in from the outside world.

After a few minutes of silence, when Sherlock could hear Johns breathing slowing down as he drifted off to sleep a thought occurred to him.

“John” Sherlock said, and was met with a sleepy questioning hum.  “I don’t ever want to see those black pants again.”

He felt John smile against his shoulder.  “They are already in the bin” John told him sleepily.

A very pleased look took over Sherlocks face.  “Only red pants from now on” John said, burrowing closer to Sherlock.

“Only red pants” Sherlock echoed happily.

 

**Author's Note:**

> When Sherlock is complementing Johns arse in different languages they are ‘Perfect’ as follows:  
> Täydellinen = Finnish, Téleios = Greek, Parfait = French, Perfekt = Germen, Ideal’no = Russian, Pāfekuto = Japanese, Perfect = English.  
> I apologise now if any of these are incorrect. I am only as good as google translator!


End file.
